


Divination For Dickheads

by Seefin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Affection & Humour, HP: EWE, Harry Potter Birthday Bash 2k17, M/M, Post-Hogwarts, playing fast and loose with the concept of palm reading
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 08:19:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11665233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seefin/pseuds/Seefin
Summary: It doesn't actually turn out to be the worst birthday present he's ever been given.





	Divination For Dickheads

**Author's Note:**

> [Lears](http://lears.tumblr.com/) and I collaborated for this and you can see her artwork [here](http://lears.tumblr.com/post/163652414909), it's beautiful, she's crazy talented. 
> 
> Happy Birthday Harry, I (we?) love you a lot. 
> 
> (((Thank you to [toasterhaz](http://toasterhaz.tumblr.com/) who did a sweet job beta reading this for me)))

“This is the worst birthday present I’ve ever been given,” Harry says mournfully, staring up at the grotty ceiling of the bus. A droplet of water grows heavy on one of the screws in the metal and drips onto his jeans, forming a little warm patch on his knee. He hates London in the summer; even the rain is hot, and everything smells sweaty and metallic all the time. “And that’s including everything the Dursleys ever gave me. That includes the fucking toothpick.”

 _“The toothpick,_ _”_ Ginny says from behind him, in a tone of fond remembrance, “what utter fucking pricks.”

“You’re in direct competition with them right now,” Harry points out, twisting around to face her, his neck clicking from where he must have slept on it funny.

Ginny moved up to Crouch End last year with Luna, into a top floor flat on the hill leading up towards Alexandra Palace, and it’s lovely except that it’s so far outside the centre of the city. Harry had never been more thankful to have Grimmauld Place than when he was helping Luna and Ginny with their house search, months and months of touring around the various boroughs in the rain, looking at approximately a billion depressing flats until they found one they liked. It’s not like he was _lucky_ to get Grimmauld Place or anything, considering what he had to lose in order for it to be left to him, but he’s grateful for it anyway, every time he opens the front door, or looks out into the lovely, overgrown garden, or goes into his big bedroom at the top of the house. Luna and Ginny's flat, by contrast, is tiny, because they have to pay rent like normal people. It's barely even one bedroom, with just a partition between the kitchen and the living room, so he always has to sleep on their old sofa bed when he stays over, twisting around all night on the thin mattress just so he can get comfortable.

“Can you sit beside me actually?” he asks after a second, “this is making my neck hurt.”

“I want my own seat,” she replies, right through a wide yawn, and shakes her head. “Do you need me to move in front of you?” she then asks, in that fake-kind voice he’s heard Molly use before when she’s talking to someone she doesn’t like very much.

He makes a face at her and turns so he’s sitting sideways across the seat, his feet dangling out into the walkway. They have the upstairs deck mostly to themselves, and the rest of the bus is pretty much silent apart from a couple of teenagers necking loudly in the very back. Ginny yawns again, directly in his face this time, and starts rummaging through all the wrappers in her backpack until her hand emerges, triumphantly clutching a ratty-looking flyer.

“What’s that?” he says, nodding at the paper in her hand and squinting, the words blending together the way they do when he hasn’t got a good enough sleep the night before. He pushes his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose using the back of his hand. 

Ginny hands it over the back of his seat. “The leaflet for it,” she says, “Draco gave me loads the last time I was there, told me to put them up in cafes and stuff.” She pauses, a small frown forming on her brow. “He gave me like… fifty? I think? And I only put up about five, three of which went in the window of the health food store round the corner.” 

“Isn’t it in Diagon Alley?” he asks, looking down at the shining brochure, the blue pixelated mist swirling on the cover. It’s pretty low-budget, Harry thinks. It doesn’t seem at all like something Malfoy would even approve of, let alone buy himself.

“So if you need any _palm reading leaflets,_ _”_ she continues, “I’m your girl.”

“Isn’t it in Diagon Alley though?” he asks her again, and folds it open in his lap. _Malfoy’s Mystics_ is the name of the place, which obviously makes him burst out laughing when he reads it in huge, sweeping text across across all three pages. “Christ,” he says, at the badly cropped photos of crystal balls, at the pink, curling font, at the cartoon diagram of someone’s palm; helpfully colour coded and, for some reason, annotated in German.

“It’s super tacky,” Ginny says gleefully, peering over the seat. “He went Muggle with the printing because he thought it would give him an edge.” She rests her sharp chin on his shoulder.

“An edge over _what,_ _”_ Harry says, trying to shrug her off, his eyes wide, “an edge over literally _who?_ What’s his fucking target audience for this shit?”

“Who the fuck knows.” She shrugs, jolted back in her seat when the bus makes an abrupt stop at a set of traffic lights. “Obviously Muggles can’t just wander into Diagon Alley, but then why did he ask me to put leaflets out in Muggle cafes, you know?”

“So it’s in Diagon Alley,” Harry says, raising his eyebrows.

“Yeah, obviously,” she replies, pausing for a moment to think. “He did say something about it standing out against traditional wizarding advertisement techniques.”

“I mean,” Harry says, “he’s definitely right about that one.” He allows himself one second to study the single photo of Draco, smiling gamely out from the front door of his shop dressed in long, green robes. He blinks, then drops the brochure onto the wet floor of the bus and pushes it underneath the seat in front of him, where hopefully it’ll get crumpled into a soggy mush by someone’s feet.

“Oi,” Ginny starts, outraged for a split second before she says, “oh, actually I don’t care, I have forty left.”

“What,” Harry asks, “in your bag? On you? Do you just carry them around? Is it so you can look at a picture of Malfoy whenever the mood takes you?”

“Oh shove off, Harry Potter,” she replies, kicking the back of his seat half-heartedly. She leans over to the window and looks down into the street. “It’s the next stop,” she says, “and don’t start with me or I’ll embarrass you in front of him.”

“We could just not go,” he suggests, determinedly ignoring her threat.

She looks at him through her too-long fringe. “You’re starting to sound ungrateful,” she points out, which actually makes him feel a bit sick.

“Okay, no, I was just trying to be funny,” he tells her, “obviously if you think it’ll be good then it’ll be good.”

“That’s the spirit,” she says, and kisses him briefly on the temple before standing up, wobbling as the bus turns around a sharp corner. “Coming?” she asks, even though it's becoming pretty clear he doesn’t actually have a choice in the matter.

*

Malfoy’s shop is giving him flashbacks to Divination. It even _smells_ the same, some weird mix of burnt sage and tea that's been sat brewing too long. There’s incense burning in a holder on the receptionist’s desk, which seems to be where the smell is emanating from, and Harry wonders if Trelawney and Malfoy buy their supplies from the same place or if this is just the natural scent you start to acquire when you’re able to tell the future.

Not that he thinks Malfoy can actually tell the future.

“Malfoy’s definitely going to predict the grim just to fuck with me,” he whispers, catching his reflection in a display of swirling crystal balls, blue and purple and pink. He didn’t think they did that by themselves, the ones in Trelawney’s classroom had always been clear and boring until someone touched them, and even then they'd only fogged up a bit like the inside of a window on a cold day.

“Hi,” Ginny says to the receptionist, completely ignoring him, “We have an appointment for twelve?”

The receptionist seems to be a ghost, a really ancient one, which Harry always assumed would be a hindrance for getting a job, but apparently not. She’s even _chewing_ _gum_ , somehow; he can see it rolling around in her mouth. She flips through a book on the table, which Harry also thought ghosts weren’t able to do, and runs her finger down an almost empty page of appointments.

“It’s just for one,” she says, in a low, cold voice, like she smoked a pack a day for her entire life. Harry’s always been shit at telling how old people are, especially with kids, but he thinks she must be at least eighty. And who knows how long she’s been dead for. He wants to ask her if ghosts stop counting their birthdays when they’re dead but obviously that would be a horrible thing to ask someone.

“Yeah,” Ginny agrees, and nods her head towards Harry. “This one over here.” Harry smiles at her and brings his hand up to wave awkwardly. Ginny snorts at him.

“You’ve paid in advance,” the ghost says, eyeing him. She doesn’t have a name badge on, which makes sense, but also doesn’t even have one of those card things on her desk like CEOs have in movies. He should suggest it to Malfoy, it doesn’t seem right that he should go around thinking of her as _the old ghost._

“It’s his birthday,” Ginny says, in a fond voice that actually sounds real this time. She scrubs at his hair for a moment before patting it down flat onto his forehead. Harry doesn't even bother attempting to fend her off.

“Happy birthday,” the ghost tells him, and then stands up and floats through a beaded curtain behind her desk.

“Ghosts are creepy,” Ginny whispers.

“Does she get paid?” Harry whispers back.

“I don’t know,” Ginny says, frowning, “what would they spend money on? They can’t go many places.”

“Okay I always wonder this,” Harry says, “where can ghosts actually go? Do they have to stay where they died? Do they have to just stay in the building? The ghosts in Hogwarts didn’t seem like they could leave but also Nearly Headless Nick was always on about the hunt. Was the hunt on Hogwarts grounds?”

Ginny looks baffled. “I-- maybe there’s a mile radius or something where they can go? Or maybe they can go anywhere but they like staying close to the place they died.”

Harry makes a face, then thinks about how if he’d died and became a ghost then maybe he’d just have had to wander around in The Forbidden Forest for all of eternity. “Would you want to become a ghost?” he asks.

“Depends,” Ginny replies, shrugging so hard that one strap of her vest falls down her freckled shoulder. “Like, depends on where it was. Probably Hogwarts would be cool, but I wouldn’t want to be at the Burrow forever, it’s been on the verge of falling down since I was born, and then what am I supposed to do, piss about in a field forever?”

“Hm,” he says, “guess so,” and then the ghost comes back in and they have to stop talking about it.

“He’s ready,” she says, and Harry’s stomach starts to sink. “Go up the stairs, there’s only two rooms up there and one’s a toilet, so you can’t miss it.”

“Have fun,” Ginny says, shooing him towards the curtain, “I’ll be next door.”

“In the vape shop,” Harry says drily.

“In the other next door,” she corrects, “in the coffee shop, you twat. Who _vapes? ”_

“I hate you,” he hisses, but starts walking around the desk anyway. She’s already paid for it, it’s not like he’s going to turn down a present.

“Tell him about your crush,” she stage-whispers.

“I _hate you,_ _”_ he says again, but she’s already turning away to inspect a deck of tarot cards, laid out on a soft-looking velvet tablecloth.

The staircase is one of those metal spiral ones that always makes him feel sick when he goes up, the treads just a little too small for his feet to fit all the way on. Also they’re the kind of wrought-iron where there’s loads of holes everywhere, and he thinks there’s no possible way they could hold a person up. At least all the spiral staircases in Hogwarts were stone, sturdy and rough and wide enough that two people could walk next to each other side by side.

Harry stops to catch his breath at the top, peering down the dim corridor. It’s darker up here, with only a half-moon window at the end of the hallway to light the way. At least downstairs there had been the massive shop windows at the front, even if someone, probably Malfoy’s receptionist, had tried to block out most of the light with some floaty red fabric, embedded with little gold stars. There’s two doorways on the corridor, and one doesn’t actually have a door in it, just another of those fucking beaded curtains. He doesn’t think even Malfoy is mean enough to have beaded curtains on a toilet.

Harry hesitates for a minute before he knocks on the doorjamb, and it comes out a lot louder than he’d intended, echoing through the room. Malfoy’s sitting in an armchair beside an open window, and his head jerks up at the noise.

“Potter,” he says, and it’s so familiar that it makes something tug inside Harry’s chest.

“Hi,” he agrees, feeling stupid and awkward and like he can’t move in the right way.

Malfoy stands up. “Come in,” he says. Harry thought he might be wearing a set of robes like the one in his picture, but he’s got on a dark suit instead, with a deep red shirt underneath. Harry immediately feels underdressed in his jeans, but he blames London and the heat. He doesn’t know how anyone could stand to wear a suit in this kind of weather.

“This is weird,” Harry blurts out, and Malfoy’s eyes go wide. He raises his eyebrows.

“Why are you here?” he asks, and then shakes himself and says, “I know Ginny got this for you as a birthday present.”

Harry doesn’t know why he’s here, or-- he does, but it’s a shit reason and not one he can give Malfoy. _Oh, you know, I just wanted to spend half an hour alone with you._ “I want to see if you can actually tell the future,” is what he really says, and Malfoy just smiles like something's funny, then runs a hand down the front of his suit before sitting down again.

“Come on then,” he says, waving at the armchair across from him, “let’s get it over with.”

“I’ve got a time slot,” Harry tells him, “I’m getting my money’s worth.”

 _“Ginny’s_ money’s worth,” Malfoy corrects, and then, “do you want some tea?”

“Are we doing tea leaves?” Harry asks, turning his face towards the breeze coming in through the window. “Because I don’t trust tea leaves.”

“How about you drink a cup of tea, and then if you feel like it we can look at the leaves,” Malfoy offers, looking up at him.

Harry sits down, immediately sinking into the pile of pink cushions on the armchair. Malfoy has a pretty nice place here actually; the room is massive and there are two huge sets of windows, the one that they’re next to even leads out onto a tiny balcony, lined with potted plants. It’s nothing like Trelawney’s classroom, where Harry would sometimes find himself struggling to even breathe in the thick, hot air at the top of the tower.

“Okay,” Harry says evenly, as Malfoy finishes pouring hot water into a small yellow teacup. He leans across the table in between them to hand it over, and Harry takes it, just holds it there for a minute for the tea to brew while it shakes in its saucer.

“It doesn’t have to be weird,” Malfoy says, but he’s not even making eye contact, which Harry thinks is already well on the way to being weird.

The thing is, is that Malfoy’s actually a reasonably nice person now that he’s made it all the way through puberty and then an entire war. But even though he’s mellowed out loads since school, and comes to the weekly pub quiz night at the Leaky with Luna, he’s still not exactly someone Harry would trust with seeing his entire future. 

“Um,” Harry says intelligently, and then runs out of words.

 “Okay. You’ll have to talk though,” Malfoy points out, the beginnings of a smirk on his face, and Harry mentally rolls his eyes. Then he actually rolls his eyes, because Malfoy appreciates that sort of thing. True to form, Malfoy snorts. “Have you ever done this before?” he asks.

“Um. No?” Harry replies, wondering if all the horrid predictions from Professor Trelawney count in that or not. They probably don’t. “No,” he settles on finally.

Malfoy’s mouth twitches. “Positive?” he asks, and bites the inside of his mouth when Harry makes a face at him. “Alright,” he says, “I suppose-- you can choose from a couple of options. Crystal ball reading, palm reading, tarot reading, tea leaves--” he cuts off to shuffle through a stack of papers on the table, “I have a menu around here somewhere,” he says absently.

“A menu?” Harry echoes, trying not to laugh.

Malfoy’s head snaps up and he narrows his eyes a bit. He sits back in his chair. “Maybe we should just go with the basics,” he says, “since it’s your first time and all.”

“Maybe we should just go with the basics,” Harry agrees, “what did Ginny pay for?”

“Whatever you want,” Malfoy says, shrugging loosely, and Harry tries incredibly hard not to feel a bit thrilled at the sound of those words coming out of his mouth.

“What’s your speciality?” he asks.

Malfoy considers him for a moment, all dark grey eyes and pretty, white hair. “It depends what you want to know. Tarot cards are best for when you have a specific question, crystal balls are mostly the same except harder to use, palm readings are for-- things that are fixed, I suppose.”

Harry’s always had an uneasy relationship with his own future. He used to think nothing was fixed, until the prophecy came true. He used to think nobody could tell the future, until the prophecy came true. He thinks that this, palm reading, crystal balls, is a different type of magic than prophecy though.

“Can you do what Professor Trelawney did?” he asks, “like-- the prophecy stuff.”

Malfoy’s expression softens. “Not on demand,” he says, “you can’t ask for that sort of thing.”

“What’s the most accurate?” Harry asks, because as far as he can tell it all seems kind of hit and miss. 

“It’s all accurate,” Malfoy says slowly. “Let’s just do a palm reading. Drink your tea,” he prompts, nodding towards the cup in Harry’s hand.

To the surprise of literally everyone except Luna, Malfoy had come back for eighth year at Hogwarts. He hadn’t actually gone to lessons, he’d just spent all his time wandering around the grounds or hanging about in the Divination classroom, hovering at the back near the bookshelves to observe lessons, polishing crystal balls while Trelawney was giving one of her incoherent lectures. The only reason Harry had even known he was back at the castle is because he’d picked divination as one of his NEWT subjects, after he’d found out from Cho that there wasn’t actually a proper exam, and that you could basically use the double periods to catch up on sleep before Quidditch practice. Harry could trace his unfortunate crush right back to those divination lessons, since Malfoy had never actually talked during them, just stood there in the corner quietly with his hair grown out a bit, tall and pale and stupidly fit.

Malfoy had stayed when everyone else from their year was leaving, for three more years until he’d worked up the courage to open his own shop. He’d told Harry about it once, when they had been tipsy at a party for Luna's graduation, sat at an abandoned table while everyone else danced. Apparently you didn’t even need qualifications to become a seer; there wasn’t an exam you had to take, there wasn’t any regulatory board; if you were good, people would come to you. At least that’s what Malfoy had said. Harry supposed it didn’t really matter if Malfoy was good or not, if people came to him or not. Malfoy had enough money to last him several lifetimes. Malfoy was the kind of rich where he could run a failing shop just for the hell of it if he wanted to.

“I’m surprised you’re here,” Malfoy says, pulling his chair closer to the table so that he can reach Harry’s hand more easily. Harry hadn’t thought about the fact that Malfoy would have to touch him.

Harry deliberates for a moment over whether or not he should tell Malfoy that Ginny made him come. “Why?” he asks instead.

Malfoy tilts his head to the side. He does that a lot, like a confused cat or something. “I suppose I thought you weren’t the type of person who’d want to know about your future, after the prophecy.”

“You know about the prophecy,” Harry says, and doesn’t know why he’s surprised. Lucius probably-- it had probably been all anyone could talk about at the Manor for a while during the war.

“It’s famous,” Malfoy tells him, then pauses, “or at least it seems as though it should be, I don’t think that many people have actually heard of it.”

“This isn’t like that though,” Harry says, “I thought.”

Malfoy takes a deep breath. “It’s still-- it’s still knowing something about your life it might be better not to know.”

“Are you warning me off?” Harry asks, raising his eyebrows, “do you think I’m going to get pissed at you if you see something bad?”

Malfoy shakes his head. “I won’t see anything bad,” he says.

“Why don’t you just do the thing where you look at my palm and guess things about me,” Harry offers, “like if I’m… I don’t know, headstrong or creative or whatever.”

Malfoy looks at him. “I already know you’re headstrong. Give me your right hand.”

Harry reaches his arm out across the table and Malfoy takes hold of his wrist, tugging him closer. He puts his index finger right in the center of Harry’s opened palm. “I thought you’d have a fate line,” Malfoy says after a second, frowning, and obviously Harry has no idea what that means. It sounds bad.

“Okay,” he says, because he isn’t quite sure how to respond to that.

Malfoy folds his hand up a little, so the creases are more prominent. “This is your life line,” he says, finger on the curved line beside Harry’s thumb, “and this is your heart line,” he continues, moving over it. “Everyone has those, and a head line. But the fate line, the one that tells you the most about your future, is supposed to be here.” He brushes his thumb over the heel of Harry’s hand. “I thought you out of everyone would have one.”

Harry can barely breathe. Malfoy’s head is bent over, his hair falling all in his face, and he’s talking quiet and serious and slow, and Harry feels like this would be a terrible time to kiss him but wants to anyway. “I think it makes sense,” he says.

Malfoy glances up at him. “No it doesn’t,” he replies, “you had a prophecy about you and everything.”

Harry swallows over a lump in his throat. “For a while, during the war, I thought I would probably die. Like for ages I didn’t think I’d have a future, so it makes sense,” he says, because he’s never had the best impulse control, and because it’s sweltering in this room and Malfoy is cradling his hand softly, like it’s something he wants to take care of.

“Potter,” Malfoy says weakly, and gets a pained look on his face. “I’m rather worried you’re not enjoying this.”

“What are you talking about?” Harry says, his heart beating hard in the palm of his hand, “I’m having a great time.”

“It’s supposed to be a birthday present,” Malfoy says, and lets go of his hand all of a sudden. “Maybe we should do the tea leaves.”

“Come on,” Harry says, smiling and breathless, “tell me about my heart line.”

Malfoy smiles slowly. “It’s not the same, it just tells you things you already know about myself.”

“I don’t know that much about myself,” Harry says.

“You’re sentimental,” Malfoy tells him, leaning back in his chair. “It’s unbroken, so no failed marriages hopefully.” 

“You should come to my birthday party later,” Harry blurts out, fiddling with a loose thread on his knee. Malfoy starts to laugh, tipping his head back towards the ceiling. Harry wants to know what the palm of _his_ hand looks like.

“Merlin,” Malfoy says, shaking his head, “alright then.”

“It’s at the aquarium,” Harry says, “the-- the London one, obviously.”

“Oh, obviously,” Malfoy says, still laughing.

“It starts at eight, you don’t have to get me a present or anything,” Harry tells him.

“Just-- just pass me your fucking teacup, Potter,” Malfoy says, beckoning for it, and then sighs. “And obviously I’m going to have to buy you a present, I wasn’t raised by wolves.”

*

It seems as though everybody Harry has even spoken to is in this bar, apart from Malfoy, even though it’s almost eleven and they’ve been here for hours. Harry tries desperately to remember whether or not he told Malfoy the right date, but he doesn’t think he could have fucked up the word _tonight_ enough that Malfoy wouldn’t have understood. He’s a mess, and every time someone blonde walks past the table he's at his eyes dart over, but more often than not it's just Luna ferrying drinks around.

“Oh,” Ginny says, coming to sit on the arm of his chair, “you look morose.”

“I’m not, I’m just tired,” Harry lies, watching a group of fish dart past, glinting in the low lights. The wall of the bar is basically just the entire side of a fish tank, filled with bright coral and lovely little fish and a couple of dark, slow moving sharks. “I’m having a nice time though.”

“Maybe this will cheer you up,” she says, carefully pulling a gold paper crown out of her pocket and unfolding it delicately. It’s the type the Dursleys always used to wear at Christmas dinner and New Years, out of a cracker with a shit joke inside. Back then, Harry had never got to wear one. She shoves it onto his head, patting his hair out of the way and tucking some behind his ears. “You look gorgeous,” she says, “what’s a nice boy like you doing sitting all by himself?”

“Ron went to get us beers,” Harry informs her. “He did that thing where he points at you really hard and says _stay here.”_

“So he’s obviously hammered,” Ginny says, making a face. “Classic Ron move.”

Ron’s always been enthusiastic about Harry’s birthday, and he approaches the organisation of parties the same way he does a game of Quidditch; seriously, and with a huge amount of enthusiasm. Last year they’d had a sleepover in the British Museum, right near the dinosaur skeletons, just Harry and Ron and Hermione in their sleeping bags. It had been a lot like the sleepovers they’d used to have, except not in a smelly tent and without the constant threat of capture and death hanging over their heads.

Ron had grown up with the kind of birthday parties Dudley had had, although maybe not on the same scale. The type where you invited the whole class over and there was a bouncy castle in the back garden and a table for people to leave presents on. Harry had never had a party like that, for obvious reasons, but he’d been to a few when Petunia couldn’t come up with a good enough reason not to let him. She’d used to say _at least this gets you out of my hair for a few hours_ , when she’d leave him outside someone’s house, as if Harry was an unruly puppy that wouldn’t stop chewing on the furniture. They’d been great actually, the parties, because there had usually been cake and nobody had ever got angry with him for eating loads.

“Let him be,” Harry says, yawning, “he just loves me and wants to celebrate the day of my birth.”

Ginny snorts, and then says, “Draco’s here,” just as Malfoy throws himself into a seat next to Harry’s, flushed and out of breath.

“Sorry I’m late, chaps,” Malfoy announces, “it’s incredibly difficult to find a good present on such short notice.”

“It’s eleven at night,” Harry says, ignoring the squeeze in his chest at the sight of Malfoy, because it’s embarrassing and he doesn’t want to think about it. “You can’t have been buying a present at eleven at night.”

Malfoy looks at him for a moment, still breathing hard. “Do you want it?” he says, “because you’re acting as though you don’t want it.”

“I want it,” Harry tells him, “even though I told you not to buy me anything.”

“Hi Draco,” Ginny says pointedly, “lovely to see you.”

“Oh hello Ginevra,” Malfoy replies, “It’s been a full six hours since we saw each other earlier, please tell me every single thing that’s happened to you since.”

“I went home,” she says, “and had a shower. I thought about shaving my legs but then didn’t, because, as you can see, I’m wearing trousers.” She extends her leg out towards him, a tanned strip of skin appearing between the top of her boot and the hem. “Also because I hate shaving my legs.”

Malfoy nods at her seriously. “And what did you have for dinner?” he asks, grinning when Harry starts laughing.

“Thank you so much for asking,” Ginny says, “we all went out for burgers but funnily enough I didn’t actually get a burger, I got a wrap.”

“Amazing,” Malfoy says, “truly a story for the ages.”

“Oops,” Ginny says, making a face at someone behind Harry’s shoulder, “Ron’s coming, I’d better go and distract him for a bit.”

“Bye then?” Malfoy says, but Ginny’s already stalked off before he can even get it out. Harry takes this opportunity to stare at him. “Wow,” Malfoy says, presumably at the expression on Harry's face. “Exactly how much have you had to drink, Potter?”

Harry smiles at the collar of Malfoy’s shirt, dark blue against his skin. “Not that much,” he says, and then gets immediately distracted when Malfoy crosses his legs, at his calf muscle tight under the fabric, the way his trousers stretch out over his thigh.

“Oh my god,” Malfoy says, and Harry looks at his mouth. “Take your present.” He gets a small box out from his back pocket, tied with a red velvet ribbon. It’s soft when Harry takes it in his hand.

It’s a necklace, in the same yellowy gold as the one Harry already wears around his neck. He lifts it out from the box, a small gold circle on the end of a thin chain, shining like a tiny sun. “Oh,” Harry says, trying not to cry because it’s just a fucking necklace. “Thank you,” he says, catching Malfoy’s eyes.

“Put it on,” Malfoy prompts. “It’ll go with your crown.” His cheeks have stained red, and Harry can’t stop staring at him.

Harry puts it on; it’s already warm against his chest. “Thank you,” he says again.

“You can’t turn up to a party empty handed,” Malfoy replies, studying the fish tank nervously. After a second he looks around the room, as if only just realising where he is. “Why on earth are we in an aquarium right now?”

“Ron tried to get the planetarium but it was booked out for a wedding,” Harry tells him, “I’m crossing my fingers for next year though.”

Malfoy drums his fingers against the arm of his chair. “Earlier,” he says, turning to Harry, “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I’m sorry.”

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” Harry tells him honestly, “I wasn’t uncomfortable.” He reaches up to touch the necklace, and Malfoy’s eyes track the movement.

“You didn’t prepare for what your life was going to be like after the war,” Malfoy says.

“Oh,” Harry says. “That part.”

“I was the opposite,” Malfoy continues, eyes focused on the ground. “The only thing that got me through it was thinking about what would come after, when it was all over.”

Harry shrugs. “At a certain point I knew what was coming, and then it got stupid to imagine what things would be like after the war because I’d upset myself.”

“I’m sorry,” Malfoy says, and it isn’t the first time he’s apologised to Harry. He takes a sharp breath. “I’m sorry for making it weird, also sorry for the shit reading, I’m usually a lot more professional.”

“It wasn’t shit,” Harry insists, and stretches his arm across the gap in between their seats so that he can rest his hand on Malfoy’s forearm. Malfoy stares at him, opening his mouth as if to say something.

“Oi!” Ron calls, from halfway across the room, making Harry startle. Malfoy closes his mouth and swallows audibly. “Come and do the speech,” Ron shouts, as Harry looks over, and people start to actually cheer.

“A speech,” Malfoy says apprehensively.

“It’s tradition,” Harry tells him. “I’ll be back, stay here.”

“Have you prepared something?” Malfoy asks him as Harry stands up, balancing himself with one hand against the cool glass of the tank.

Harry grins. “I have a theory about planning things,” he says, “I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

“Yesss,” Ron says, once he sees Harry making his way over, and starts clearing bottles off the surface of the white table beside him. “Stand on this.”

“Stand on a chair!” Ginny suggests, “you’ll be taller.”

“Fuck off?” Harry replies, and starts to clamber onto the table. He hopes Malfoy isn’t watching, but clearly he is because Harry has shit luck. Then he remembers he’s definitely done more embarrassing stuff in front of Malfoy in his life.

“Harry!” Neville says, coming up beside him and pushing against Harry’s arm in a way that’s probably meant to be helpful. “Do you need a hand mate?”

“Hi Nev,” Harry says, and rests his arm on Neville’s head, “don’t let me fall.”

“Happy birthday,” Neville says, and starts to tear up. Harry thinks he’s probably been drunk since his own birthday party at the Leaky yesterday evening.

“Shut up!” Ron shouts suddenly, once Harry is firmly situated on the wet tabletop. “Everyone shut up! Harry’s talking.”

“A round of applause for the chosen one!” Ginny cries, and then everyone who isn’t holding a drink starts clapping. Harry feels himself flush.

“Hey,” he starts, and then can't think of anything else to tell them. “Thanks for coming,” he tries, looking around the room. Luna and Hermione are sat on a pair of stools beside the bar, both their elbows leaning on the wooden counter. Hermione smiles at him, lovely and pretty and heavily pregnant, and Harry wants to cry. Mostly everyone from the former DA is here, there’s a pack of Weasleys in the corner trying to wrangle a couple of red-headed children, Ron’s got his hand around Harry’s ankle.

“I wasn’t sure that I’d see this birthday,” he says, and the room goes a little quieter. He takes a deep breath. “I think-- I think everyone had that same feeling at one point or another during the war. Um-- and it went away for me afterwards, obviously, but I think about it a lot this time of year. Back when Ron and Hermione and I were on the run, camping out in the forest or whatever, Hermione was always reading, unless we were literally in mortal danger. But I never really saw the point? I thought it was stupid, I _told her_ it was stupid a couple of times, which I’m sorry about, Hermione." He glances over to her, sees her smile just for him. "She said we needed to be prepared for our NEWTs, which I thought was probably the dumbest thing I’d ever heard, but she was right.”

“I kind of-- didn’t have much reason to be hopeful about the future. I couldn’t really see past like, I don’t know, the next battle, or maybe finally killing Voldemort. And when I did think about it, I thought it was going to be easy, because I kind of imagined everything being easy compared to what we had to do that year. And it’s not been easy, not for any of us I don’t think, but it’s been-- brilliant.”

Harry cuts off, pausing for a moment as he catches sight of Malfoy moving towards the exit like he's about to leave, and gets this awful sick feeling in his stomach. He considers abandoning his speech halfway through until he sees Malfoy turn at the door, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms. He smiles at Harry, sweet and slow, the kind of smile Harry never thought he’d see sent his way.

“I’ve had-- these past years have been the kind of years I would have imagined for myself,” Harry says, eyes on Malfoy’s smile, “if I’d ever let myself think about it. And like, it’s obviously because of you guys. You all know I have no idea what I want to do with the rest of my life, and that things are-- things will always be messy and weird and slightly shit, but you guys are making my life brilliant. Like, better than I could have hoped, so thank you, and thanks for coming and I love you all a lot, sorry this speech was bad.”

“Hey,” Ginny says, as soon as he gets down, and cups his face in her hands. “I love you so much you sad idiot.”

He puts his face into her neck for only a second before pulling away. “I love you too,” he says, and tries to catch a glimpse of Malfoy through the crowd. Ron puts and arm around his shoulders and kisses his cheek.

“I’m crying,” he says, and rubs his face against Harry’s, “look what you did.”

“Oh, let him go,” Ginny says, laughing.

“Thank you,” Harry tells him, “for the party and literally everything you’ve ever done for me.”

“I swear to Merlin,” Ron says seriously, “I’d do anything for you.”

_*_

Malfoy’s disappeared when Harry finally makes it through to the doorway where he’d been standing a few moments ago. There’s a sign on the heavy metal door that says _no entry_ but Harry thinks that probably wouldn’t have stopped him.

It opens to a tunnel made of glass, a wide stretch of bright water over Harry’s head. Malfoy’s just standing there, still, with his head tipped backwards so he can look at the underside of a shark, his face lit up in blue.

“Hey,” Harry says.

Malfoy looks at him, nods at their surroundings. “It’s brilliant,” he says, “look at the shark.”

Harry takes a step forwards, and ignores the fucking shark. “This is stupid,” he says.

Malfoy blinks. “It’s _your_ par-” he starts, but Harry cuts him off.

“No,” he says, gesturing between them, “like, this is stupid.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Malfoy replies, even though it looks like he does, actually.

“Come on,” Harry says, “I have such a crush on you.”

Malfoy grins, sudden and sharp. “Ha,” he says, “I know.”

“I _know_ you know,” Harry tells him, “I’m terrible at having crushes. I’ve never played anything cool a day in my life.”

Malfoy makes a fond noise and steps forward to push Harry against the glass wall of the tunnel. “That was a lovely speech, Potter,” he says, his hands firm on Harry’s shoulders. He slides a hand into Harry’s hair, cupping the back of his neck.

“Thank you,” Harry replies, and draws him forward with a fist clenched in the soft fabric of his shirt. He presses their lips together, already breathing hard, and Malfoy opens for him, sighing into his mouth. Harry gets one hand on Malfoy’s jaw, his fingers pressing gently into his smooth skin, and the other on Malfoy’s waist so he can stretch his hand up across Malfoy's ribs.

Malfoy makes a soft noise in the back of his throat. “Hey,” he says, pulling away, his eyes glassy, his lips wet.

“What?” Harry asks. “What do you want? Kiss me again.”

Malfoy tugs a little on the hair on the back of Harry’s head. “Hey,” he says again. “You’re going to have a good future Harry Potter, I promise.”

Harry swallows. “What, you’re going to make sure of it?” he asks, only half joking. Malfoy doesn’t say anything, just stares at Harry with those two spots of colour blooming high on his cheeks. When Harry stares back he flushes even deeper, his breath rattling in his throat. “Shit,” Harry says, voice cracking, and kisses him again, Malfoy’s mouth, Malfoy’s jaw, the shell of Malfoy’s ear.

“Yes,” Malfoy replies after a while, and slips his fingers under the new chain on Harry’s neck. “I’m going to make sure of it.”

**Author's Note:**

> love you all, thank you for reading, here is my [tumblr](http://seefin.tumblr.com/) as per usual xxxxx


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